Konrath, Joe - Dirty Martini (15 page)

“What’s spy dust?” Rick asked.

“An invisible powder that shows up under UV light.”

“You use that stuff?”

“No. I saw it on a TV show.”

We shared a laugh.

“I guess we won’t know what to do until we hear from him,” Rick said.

“Which should be tomorrow, once he reads the paper.”

I looked at my watch. Visiting hours at the hospital were until eight p.m. I needed to get going.

“Jack, you have something on your cheek.”

Rick did the mirror reflection thing, wiping his own cheek off. I wiped in the same spot.

“Did I get it?”

“No. Here.”

He reached for me, caressed my cheek, and our eyes locked and I couldn’t believe I fell for that stupid trick, but I didn’t pull away, even when he moved in and placed his lips against mine.

I didn’t kiss him back.

Well, not at first.

His lips were warm, soft, and when the tip of his tongue entered my mouth, something snapped in me and a little sigh escaped my throat and I put my hands behind his head and pressed his body against mine.

He grabbed me by my waist and picked me up out of the chair like I weighed nothing, and then his hands were on my ass and mine were on his ass and—
damn
, did he have a great ass.

As our mouths fought for better purchase, his hand came around my hips and undid my front button, or perhaps just tugged it off, and then his fingers touched the top of my panties and he was a few inches away from seeing how excited I really was. Then common sense overrode hormones and the World’s Worst Fiancée pushed him away.

“I . . . can’t,” I said between deep breaths.

“Sure you can. I bet you’re really good at it.”

I wanted him, but a small voice inside me said I was just using sex to cope with all of my problems. Then another small voice tried to convince me that there was nothing wrong with that, sex was a perfectly acceptable way to cope, and that voice was louder than the first. And then a third voice, louder than both of the others, reminded me about a boyfriend on a ventilator whom I was afraid to marry because I feared making mistakes.

And then it all made sense.

“I’m afraid to get married because I’m afraid I’ll screw it up,” I said, surprised at the self-realization. “So I’m subconsciously trying to sabotage that.”

Rick reached for me again, but I kept him at arm’s length.

“I . . . I fear failure,” I said to Rick. But it wasn’t really to Rick. It was more to myself. “So I’d rather cop out of a situation than take a chance. I mean, look at me, I’d rather sabotage a good thing instead of giving it a try.”

I stared at Rick, who somehow had his shirt open—had I done that?—revealing as nice a chest as I’d ever seen outside of a movie.

“I’m going to see my fiancé,” I told him.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. I’m really sure.”

Rick smiled. “He’s a very lucky man.”

I checked my pants button, and saw that he’d also gotten the zipper down. I zipped them back up, suddenly embarrassed.

“If it doesn’t work out . . .” Rick said, letting his voice trail off.

But I knew it would work out. I’d make sure it would work out. I loved Latham, and I’d do everything within my power to make our marriage succeed.

“We’re not going to happen,” I told Rick, pointing at him and me. “I’m sorry.”

Rick sighed, then buttoned up his shirt and left my office, closing the door behind him.

I adjusted my blouse and realized he had unhooked my bra as well. How the hell had he done that so fast?

The phone rang, and I knew deep in my heart that it was Latham, and he was conscious again, perhaps even well enough for me to screw his brains out.

But it wasn’t Latham. It was Hajek at the crime lab.

“I’m a genius, Lieutenant. A certifiable genius.”

“What happened?”

“I got the license number. And even better, I traced it.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning we’ve got the bastard’s address.”

CHAPTER 19

W
HAT’S THE ADDRESS?” I
asked.

“Don’t you want to know how I did it?”

Hajek spoke with the same enthusiasm as a child showing off the construction paper snowflake he made in school.

“Give me the quick version.”

“JPEG compression didn’t work, and neither did resizing or noise reduction, so I used a program that could change the blur width by—”

“You’re a genius,” I said, interrupting. “What’s the address?”

“But changing the focus points wasn’t enough. I had to rearrange the pixels using—”

“The address, Scott.”

He sighed. “Vehicle belongs to a Tracey Hotham. Her apartment is on Thirty-first and Laramie in Cicero.”

“Did you run priors?”

“Of course. No records. I checked DMV, and her license had expired. So I tried Social Security, and found out Tracey died six years ago.”

“How?”

“I didn’t dig that deep. But you can ask her parents. According to 411, they’re still living at the Cicero address.”

Two scenarios came to me simultaneously. Maybe they no longer had the car, or maybe a member of Tracey’s family was the Chemist.

I yawned. Not from boredom—my lack of sleep was catching up with me. “Nice work, Scott.”

“Thanks. Maybe we could discuss it over dinner.”

“Sure. I’ll call you tomorrow, during dinner.”

I hung up, my fingers pressing the speed dial for Herb before my mind remembered he and I were no longer a team. I hit the disconnect button.

Abruptly, I felt very alone.

I could get in touch with Bains, have him assign me a new partner, but that wouldn’t happen today. I wasn’t even sure I wanted a new partner on this case. I didn’t like wearing a bull’s-eye, and didn’t want to hang one on anyone else.

Calling Rick wasn’t an option. I didn’t want to see him again unless I was wearing a suit of armor. I could try Scooterboy Buchbinder, but going solo was preferable to hearing him wax prolific about the World’s Largest Road Apple. Before leaving Willoughby’s, he had taken me aside and confessed that right before the unfortunate collision, he’d sworn the manure pile looked exactly like the Lincoln head on Mt. Rushmore.

“I keep seeing it. President Lincoln’s face, getting cleaved in half. And that haunting, squishing sound . . .”

The guy had issues. More than issues—he had a whole subscription.

So I had no choice. I’d be going stag to Cicero.

On my way to the car, I called the Cicero police, and was bounced around until I connected with a sergeant named Cooper.

“You think the Chemist lives in our burg?”

“I have no idea. As of now, the Hothams are persons of interest. It’s your jurisdiction, if you want someone there.”

“We’ll meet you at the apartment. You need a warrant?”

“I just want to ask some questions. Don’t . . .” I thought about walking into Alger’s house. “Have your people wait for me before they go in. This guy likes to set traps.”

And then I hopped in my car and headed for Cicero.

The drive only took fifteen minutes. Cicero bordered Chicago on the west, blending into it seamlessly. Mostly Hispanic, a population of around eighty thousand, middle class, blue collar, more like a neighborhood of Chicago than a distinct town.

Their patrol cars were black with silver accents, and there was one of them at the address when I arrived. It was empty.

On the drive over, I’d gotten a little sleepy. But this put me into full alert mode, complete with adrenaline sweat and a tug of nausea. They’d gone in without me.

I dug out my .38 and stared at the apartment building. Three stories, brick, dirty beige. Black wrought iron railing along the walkway, rusty and broken. Security windows on the first floor. Front door open a crack.

I hung my star around my neck, drew in a big breath, and went through the door.

Hallway was well lit, the walls freshly painted. I took the stairs two at a time, up to the second floor and 2-C, where the Hothams resided. Their door was also open a few inches. I nudged it with my shoulder, peering into the apartment but keeping my face well away from the crack.

I heard static, then, “Car seventeen, this is base, please copy.”

“Police,” I announced. “I’m coming in.”

I eased the door open, still not daring to breathe the air coming out of the apartment.

I saw the legs first. Male, black shoes, sidearm still in his rocker holster.

“Seventeen this is base, what’s your twenty, over.”

He lay on his back, bloodshot eyes wide, mouth hanging open and coated in froth and mucus. I didn’t see any movement, but I knew I needed to check for a pulse to be sure.

The problem was, I didn’t want to go into that apartment.

I parted my lips, still not breathing, but trying to taste the air, to see if it was safe. I didn’t taste anything.

“Is anyone inside this apartment?” I said loudly.

No answer.

My options were to call for backup, or go inside and look for possible survivors. If this was the Chemist’s apartment, it could be booby-trapped.

“Car seventeen, this is base, please respond. You there, Smitty?”

I let in a tiny bit of air. It seemed fine. No strange smell. No physical reaction, other than a strange sense of déjà vu that I’d been in this same situation before, which wasn’t déjà vu at all.

But this time, I didn’t have a space suit.

I went in, crouched next to the fallen cop, probing his carotid. Nothing. So I reached for the radio clipped to his chest.

“This is Lieutenant Daniels, Chicago PD. We have an officer down at 1730 East Thirty-first, apartment 2-C. Request immediate assistance.”

The radio crackled a response, but I wasn’t paying attention; my eyes focused on the two people sitting on the couch.

A man and a woman. Early sixties. She had brown hair, cut short, with gray highlights. He was mostly bald. Both wore glasses. Both stared straight at me.

Both were dead.

It took a moment to realize that. After the adrenaline startle, I stood erect and took a few steps toward them. Their eyes were dry, lifeless. Their faces devoid of color. They held hands, and I noticed the lividity blush to their fingers, where the blood had pooled.

What killed these people?

My paranoia kicked up to near panic, and I looked up, down, left and right, in every direction I could, for traps, for gas, for IEDs, for poison, for anything dangerous or out of place.

Cobwebs on the ceiling. A clean carpet. An easy chair. Two floor lamps, glowing. A window air conditioner. A large floor-model humidifier, silent. Photos on the walls, of the old people. It was their house.

“Is anyone in here?” I shouted.

No response.

I walked past the fallen officer, through the living room, nice and easy, aware of my center, my footing, my balance, eyes sweeping the floor for wires and fishing line.

Another cop was in the kitchen, facedown on the tile floor, a pool of vomit surrounding his head like a green halo. Gun clenched in his fist. No signs of any injury, just like his partner.

Had they surprised the Chemist, and he dosed them all and then ran out?

Or had they run into some of his improvised traps?

Or was the Chemist still inside, waiting with his jet injector?

The phone rang, and my finger flinched. I was a millimeter away from shooting the dead cop before I caught myself and eased back on the trigger.

It rang again. I stared at the phone, one of those older desktop models the phone company once called “Princess,” on the kitchen counter between a coffee machine and a tabletop humidifier—apparently the Hothams preferred a humid household.

I moved in closer, searching for trip wires or switches attached to the phone. It seemed untampered with. On the third ring, I picked it up.

“Hello?”

“Who is this?” A male voice, whispering.

“Lieutenant Daniels, of the Chicago Police Department. Who am I speaking with?”

A pause. I could hear him breathing. Slow and even, like a metronome.

“You know who this is, Lieutenant. Did they assign you a new partner yet?”

Anger overrode anxiety. “Why are you doing this?”

“You’re the cop. You figure it out.”

I clenched the phone so tight, my knuckles turned white.

“You’re killing innocent people.”

“No one is fully innocent,” he rasped. “Especially not the police.”

“How about these people in this apartment? What did they do to you?”

“Unfortunate, but I needed the car. I believe the government would call them casualties of war, or collateral damage.”